It really is strange, that somehow after all this time Dumbledore is still haunting him. In a way. He is the one who says it: that death is just another adventure. Or something. He does not remember exactly, it really has been long.

He's still right about things. Harry doesn't miss the old man, but he does see him in a different way now after he's been gone. After a century.

Dumbledore is an eccentric old man, but his soul is everlastingly youthful. He has been through wars, betrayals, goodbyes, and a lifetime of bad decisions, but his eyes are still twinkling. He takes joy in little strange things. He's... positive, not defeated, for lack of better word.

Harry does not know how he does it.

Maybe a part of him dies with Tom. He has never been whole- the earliest part of his life is dedicated to the man, whether he likes it or not. His school days are vibrant, exhilarating. Dangerous. He does not know that when Tom dies it all turns into greys and blurs. A caricature of happiness. A marriage with his school crush, white picket fences, sons and daughters.

The Harry under the stairs' dream. A family. He has long been a different Harry. Even though his job is dangerous, it is not the same. It's not danger that he seeks. It is his life that he loses, the moment Tom dies.

He's been living in a daydream.

He looks down to his hands- his long fingers, the way his skin covers his muscles: strangely tight and supple, with no wrinkles.

The young woman sitting on the bench thinks that if this adventure is a gift, there are people who needs it more than him.

He drifts off to sleep.

"Mommy? Are you okay?" A small brown-haired boy wakes him from his light nap, tugging at his sleeves.

"Yes, Tsu-kun. Your mommy is just a little sleepy. Let's go back home."